


Wish You Were Here

by sivib



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: De-aging, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Giraffes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sivib/pseuds/sivib
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold loses John.<br/>Harold finds John.<br/>Harold does not find John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So you think you can tell

**Author's Note:**

> I really need to find someone to beta read for me. I don't really know anyone in this fandom, apart from the dozens of wonderful authors on AO3, and my friends aren't into POI. My husband watches it, but I can't really trust him to give me a true opinion, based on the time honored "Honey, does this dress make me look fat?" rule of all successful marriages.
> 
> So.
> 
> I don't have much writing time, so if this seems a bit disjointed it's because my kids were interrupting throughout the writing process this afternoon. So, guess what, y'all are ALL my beta readers. Mwahahahaha! Mine is an evil laugh.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it. Chapter titles from Pink Floyd, of course, as is the main title.

“Detective Carter.  I am sorry to trouble you, but would you be able to meet with me this afternoon?”

That was more than odd.  The little man never apologized for anything, most especially not inconveniencing her.  It made her curious.  Curious enough to set aside her coffee and turn her full attention to her phone.  “Well, I don’t know, Harold.  Why would you need to ask?”

There was a short silence, followed by a sigh.  “I’m afraid I need a favor.  If you would, please meet me at the address I am about to text to your phone, and please, Detective, come alone.”  The call ended, followed shortly thereafter by a soft burr, signaling receipt of an address at the Park.

Two pleases and no mention of Reese.  Curiouser and curiouser.  A glance around the bullpen showed no sign of Fusco, no immanent danger, nothing to delay her departure.  Joss wrapped up her paperwork and signed out, the detective’s need to know overwhelming the irritation and trepidation which accompanied every encounter she had so far experienced with her two strange acquaintances.

 

It was a beautiful April day in New York City.  Spring sunshine warmed the air, and the rain from last night had washed down the streets, leaving everything smelling wonderfully clean and fresh.  The puddles on the sidewalk had dried to grey shadows, and the grass was a deep emerald carpet, dotted with dandelions in varying stages of bloom and puff.  Altogether too pretty a day, Joss decided, to be dealing with Harold’s issues, whatever they happened to be this week.

She strolled up the sidewalk, half tempted to turn around and go pull Taylor from school and share the sunshine with him, instead.  Before she could make up her mind, however, she spotted John’s strange little man, out from behind his curtain and alone on a park bench, his gaze fixed forward.  Joss glanced over at a man and dog who had seemingly captured his attention, wrestling playfully together in the sun-warmed grass.  The man was laughing full out, tumbling un-self-consciously on his back, as the dog licked him thoroughly.

Not laughing, no.  Giggling.  She smiled, watching, as the man tumbled the dog over and took off running, the dog chasing after, leaping and barking in shared joy.

“Is that Bear?” Joss asked, coming to stand next to Finch.  “I thought he only obeyed you and John.”

“He does,” Finch replied softly.  His eyes didn’t waver; he didn’t incline his body towards her in that painful shift he employed instead of turning his head.  “That’s why I needed to meet with you.”

The man and the dog were on the ground again, and Joss looked more closely at the pair.  The man was in blue jeans and a t-shirt, grass stained and rumpled, and his black and gray hair was in wild disarray.  His feet were bare and his face shone with joy, red with exertion, and eyes sparkling.

It took a moment, and then Joss gasped.  “Is that...?”

Finch smiled tightly.  “He looks quite different, doesn’t he?  I almost hate to think of losing this.”

Reese looked up from his play and then scrambled to his feet and ran over to them.  “Hi,” he said, sticking out his hand to Joss with a breathless grin.  “I’m John.  This is my friend Harold.  What’s your name?”  It sounded rehearsed, but Joss could remember Taylor doing something like that when he reached his outgoing phase, around age five. 

Right.  This had gone about as far as she was willing to go. “What the hell is going on?” she asked, batting the offered hand away and turning to Finch.  “If John’s going undercover somewhere, we could have discussed it over the phone.”  She turned to John, irritated at them both, and snapped, “You just trying out your act on me?  I got better things to do, boys.”

John’s face fell, and he dropped his hand.  “S’ry,” he mumbled, and sat down on the ground, curling into himself and folding his arms around Bear, hiding his face in the tan and black ruff of the dog’s neck.

Finch looked down at the man in dismay, then up at Joss.  “It’s ok, John,” he said, turning back and placing his hand lightly on the bent head.  “It’s ok.  Ms. Carter was just surprised.”  He glared at Joss, who shrugged her indifference.  “Say something,” he hissed.  John sniffled into Bear’s coat, rubbing his face in the soft fur.  He peeked out, one blue eye wide and guileless and filled with confusion, peering up at Joss.

The breath went out of her.  No one was that good an actor.  She had seen John Reese put on a variety of emotions and personas in their short and eventful acquaintance, from brotherly to sinister to downright terrifying.  She’d seen Reese act the innocent before, sitting across from him for long hours at Rikers’.    This, though, was something altogether different.  Even at his most unguarded, there had been a darkness lurking in John’s eyes, a sure grace in his movements.  He was always confident, contained, and careful, except when he was delivering explosive violence of some kind or another.

The man before her was an innocent.  Not acting innocent, but the real deal.  She hadn’t seen eyes like that since Taylor was in Kindergarten, but she’d recognize them anywhere.  Any parent would.

She dropped to one knee and stroked the sun-warmed black and silver hair.  “Hey, sweetie.  It’s ok.  I’m sorry I scared you.”  She kept her voice low and soft, coaxing, and slowly both grey eyes dawned out of the dog’s mane.  “It’s nice to meet you, John.  You can call me Jocelyn.”

John sniffed and rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand, keeping the other buried in Bear’s fur.  “Not scared,” he said softly.  “Bear was scared.  Not me.  I’m too big to get scared.”  He sniffed again and rubbed his nose, wiping it clean and leaving a shiny smear on the palm.

Harold made a noise.  “Oh, John, what did I tell you about wiping your nose.  Where is the handkerchief I gave you?”

Sheepishly, John smiled, and wiped his hand on his jeans.  “Sorry, Harold.  I lost it.”  He held out his hand again, the same hand so recently engaged in nasal hygiene, and smiled shyly up at Joss.  “Nice to meet you, Miss Joc’lyn.”

With an inner wince, Joss shook the offered hand.  “Nice to meet you, too, John.  Why don’t you and Bear go play while I talk to Harold, ok?”

John sprang up and grinned, forgotten tears drying on his cheeks.  “Ok.  Bye!”  He and the dog took off again, running for the tree-line.

“Don’t go too far, John!” Harold called, and was answered with a distant “ ‘Kay!”

Once John was out of earshot, Joss turned to Finch.  “What happened?”  She had to believe her instincts, although her reason was still shouting that it was all an act.  “This is for real?”

“I’m afraid so.”  Finch shifted slightly, making room for Joss to sit.  “As to what happened, I’m not at all sure.  Drugs were involved, and physical abuse; John has a series of bruises along the inside of his right arm and ligature marks on both wrists, as well as bruising to his back and abdomen.  He’s lost about fourteen pounds, and he was in very rough shape.  He’s not asked about the marks on his arms, yet, but he told me his head felt funny when I first found him, and the other physical marks he seems to take in stride.”  He rubbed his eyes and adjusted his glasses, grimacing.  “I lost contact with John a little more than a week ago, just after we completed...” he broke off, did a quick and obvious self-edit, and resumed. “After he finished a job for me.  He told me he was going out of town for a few days, but to call if I needed him.  As it turned out, I didn’t and so didn’t begin to worry until the day before yesterday.”

The picture was ugly, as ugly as anything she’d yet seen with these two.  “You think someone was trying to get something from him.  That woman who kidnapped you last year, maybe?”  Joss regretted her words a little at Finch’s flinch, but it was the obvious suspect. 

“Perhaps.  It doesn’t seem quite her style, but then again she is extremely hard to read.”  John had found a tennis ball and was throwing it for Bear, who was scrabbling after it with canine gusto.  The man was laughing again, giggling and clapping and shouting encouragement.  “She wouldn’t have given him back,” Finch concluded quietly, flicking a glance at his watch.  “She would have broadcast everything she was doing to him to me, to draw me out.  John doesn’t have what she wants.”

Joss pondered that.  That meant John must have been taken for himself, for something he knew or had done.  Unfortunately, the list of toes John had stepped on, like the list of knee caps he had shot, was a long and varied one.  The thought made Joss feel suddenly exposed, and she looked around for interested eyes.

“We’re safe in public, I think.  If they had wanted John dead, he’d be dead.”  Harold tilted his head to look at her, and then looked back at John.  “It was too nice a day to stay inside, and Bear needed a walk.”  Looking at his watch again, Harold stood and picked up a gray hoodie and a pair of very new looking tennis shoes.  “Time to go, John,” he called.  He turned back to Joss and confided, “I promised him ice cream.”

After the briefest of hesitations, John came galloping over.  “Bear is getting tired,” he said, panting.  “He’s thirsty, too.”  He accepted his shoes from Harold and sat on the ground to put them on.  For a few minutes, he fumbled with the laces and Joss had to hide a smile at the look of concentration on those strong features.  His tongue stuck out a bit as he managed the first knot, but the laces kept slipping from his fingers.  Finally, he gave a sound of frustration and leaned back on his hands.  “You do it.  It won’t do right for me.”  He stuck his foot up, resting it next to Joss’ lap.  “Can you please tie my shoelaces, Miss Joc’lyn?”

She laughed, surprised, and then reached down, brushing the tumbled bangs back from his high forehead.  His body language was all child, expansive and graceless and extravagant.  That more than anything else was convincing her gut.  “Sure thing, kiddo.  Double knots.”  She tied the laces deftly, then picked up the hoodie and popped it over his head.  Sounds of indignation came from inside the cotton sweatshirt, and when his head appeared it was more rumpled than ever.  “Now that you’re not running around, you’re going to get cold.”  April in New York, sunny or not, would mean a chill when his sweat started to evaporate.

John shook his head and said, “Bear’s not cold!  He’s panting.  That means he’s trying to cool off, right, Harold?” he turned to the older man for confirmation. 

“That’s right, John, but Bear has a nice fur coat to keep him warm as he cools down.  You don’t.”  Harold accepted the grimy and be slimed tennis ball with a grimace, and slipped it into his pocket.

John shrugged.  “I guess.”  He tucked his hands into the pockets of the hoodie and fell in beside Harold and Joss.  “Can I have some ice cream, now?  I came when you called.  Was I good?”

Joss watched as a look of pain shadowed Harold’s eyes.  “You always do, John.  And yes, you were very good.  Come along.”

A while later, John was devouring his vanilla with sprinkles and sneaking Bear bites of cone. It wasn’t the same man, she thought.  Joss couldn’t see the man in the suit at all, as hard as she looked.  His eyes were different, as was his posture, and he chattered almost non-stop.  He talked to Bear, to the ice cream man, to the kids in line, to their parents.  And he asked endless questions of Harold, who answered them all patiently.

 “Why are there more pink sprinkles than green sprinkles?”

 “There aren’t, it just looks that way.”

 “Why does Bear have to be on a leash?” 

“It’s the law.”

“Why do pigeons do that thing with their heads when they walk?”

“I believe it has to do with their balance, but we can look it up when we go home.”

John’s deep voice asking the questions of childhood was surreal and made Joss’ stomach clench.  She could only imagine how Harold was feeling, to see that dark power brought low.  Then again, she didn’t really understand, had never understood their relationship.  Vigilantes, criminals, possible murderer and accomplice, a wizard and his paladin; God only knew how they saw themselves.  Comrades in arm, with Harold behind the scenes and Reese the front line soldier in their two man crusade for whatever it was. 

Friends, she supposed, at the least.   Reese always seemed to take a gentler demeanor with the older man.  It had been a strange dynamic to observe, the hands she knew were capable such mayhem moving softly in Finch’s vicinity.  The gestures quieter, the voice with a hint of laughter and ease, his long stride shortened to match the other’s halting walk.  She always knew when Reese was talking to Finch, to the man in his ear, because the tension seemed to leak out of him just a bit, just enough to go on with.

And then there was herself, she thought ruefully, and Fusco.  Accessories after the fact, co-conspirators, reluctant and ineffectual conscience, chirping away like Jiminy Cricket and just as likely to be run over and ignored. 

“Why did you call me, Harold?” she asked, finally, softly, watching John giggle as Bear cleaned his hands and face of every last trace of ice cream.  “Why haven’t you taken him to a hospital?”

Harold smiled faintly, the lines of pain creasing his face evolving into softer creases, and said, “He would be in danger in a hospital and I have it on good authority the effects of the drugs, at least, will wear off in a week or so.  I called you because I needed a mother’s perspective.  You are the only mother I know to whom I can speak freely.”  He grimaced an apology, then looked back at John, his face losing its humor.  “I also needed to ask if you can watch him while I take certain steps to ensure our safety.”  His voice didn’t change timber, but all traces of warmth were leached out.  Joss felt a frisson traveling up her arms and raising the hairs on her nape.  “I can’t allow this.  I won’t have it.”

Joss nodded.  Watching John rolling with the dog in the sunshine, there really wasn’t a decision to make.  “Take Fusco with you,” she said, and stood.  “I’ll take him home with me.  Call me when it’s over, or if I can help.”

Harold looked up at her in surprise.  “As simple as that, Detective?”

John chose that moment to run over and give Harold a hug.  It was a careful hug, and John pulled back quickly.  “I didn’t hurt, did I, Harold?” His face was a picture of concern, but it cleared at Harold’s smile.  “I did it better.  I’m good at hugs,” he told Joss seriously.  “I used to be smaller, but I got big and I hurt Harold the first time, so I gotta be careful.  Can we go home now, Harold?  Bear’s getting sleepy.”

Bear, Joss noted, was stretched out in a patch of sun and grinning a doggie grin that was all tooth and tongue, alert for anything.  John, on the other hand, was looking decidedly bleary-eyed.  She wondered if he’d fight a nap, and if she could enforce one.  She thought she still had the knack.

“Hey, big guy,” she said with a smile. “How bout you come home with me for a while.  Harold has some errands to run and I could really use a hand with supper tonight.  I have a big pot of spaghetti that I need help eating up.”

“And maybe you could sleep over,” Harold put in.  “Just for tonight.”

John’s face fell and God, what had been done to this man that made his usual self so damned unreadable.  This John was an open book, with pictures and a CD reading disk included.  “I’m sorry I hugged too hard, Harold,” he said, so softly Joss almost missed it.  “I’ll do better.  I don’t want another placement.  I’ll be good.”  He stared at the ground, head ducked, and Joss’ heart just about broke at the quiet hopefulness in his voice.  “I won’t touch your books or your ‘puter thing or…or ask questions…or….”

“Hey, there,” Harold said softly, and pulled John down to sit next to him, then pulled the larger man into the crook of his arm, resting the tousled head on his tailored shoulder.  John held himself stiffly for a bare moment, then curled his long legs up into the bench and burrowed into Harold’s lap, wrapping his arms around the smaller man’s waist and hiding his face again.

Joss looked away, the moment too private, too painful, but she heard Harold whispering reassurances, and the deeper, childish answers, and finally a moist giggle.  When she turned back, John was rubbing his eyes again, and looking sheepish and happy, sitting up on the bench.  “Sorry, Miss Joc’lyn.  I know big boys don’t cry.  Thank you for the intiva…invasion…”

“Invitation,” Harold prompted, handing John a clean handkerchief.

“Invitation,” John echoed carefully, and rubbed his nose with the heel of his hand, the white linen square clutched in his other fist, ignored and forgotten in a moment.

Harold sighed and ruffled John’s hair.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”

John ducked out from under Harold’s hand and smiled that shy smile again.  “’Kay.  ‘Bye, Harold.”

Joss hoped Finch would keep his promise.  She wasn’t sure her heart could take it if John lost his friend before he regained his other self.  More than that, though, she hoped Harold Finch returned safely, before that other self came back and went looking for him.


	2. Chapter 2 “…heaven from hell.  Blue skies from pain…”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why aren’t you with Finch?”  
> “Should I be?” Fusco said, and held out a loaf of bread, reeking of garlic. “I come bearing gifts. Mr. Wizard said you might need some help. What’s going on?”  
> Her phone buzzed in her pocket before she could reach for it. Two words, sender unknown. Plausible deniability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small amounts of swearing and characterization abuse. And Daffy Duck.

The apartment was savory with the odors of Italian sausage, garlic, and basil.  In the living room, Elmer Fudd chased Bugs Bunny through a forest of primary colors, and John snored softly on the couch, his hands tucked under his chin.  Joss took a quick picture on her phone and sent it to Finch, a reassurance that all was well, before moving back into the kitchen to stir the sauce and put the pasta on to cook.  Taylor would be home soon, hungry as only a teenage boy can be. After a moment’s consideration, Joss added an extra handful of noodles to the pot and dumped another bottle of Ragu in the sauce, stirring it in well.  Both boys would be hungry.

The sound of the snores changed, and then Joss heard John sit up.  She wiped her hands and filled a glass with milk, carrying it in with her.  John was rubbing his eyes and yawning.  He looked confused, but his face cleared when he saw her.  “Hi, Miss Jos’lyn.”

No change, then.  She’d been a little worried that he’d revert to his former persona when he woke up, but it looked like the little boy would be visiting a little longer.  “Hi, kiddo.  Thirsty?”

John nodded eagerly, then winced and rubbed his ribs.  He wrinkled his nose and lifted up his shirt, looking at the dark bruising to his ribs and abdomen.  He prodded gently, biting his lip, and then covered up again.  Joss watched, waiting for some kind of reaction, but he just rubbed again and asked, “Can I have chocolate in my milk, please?  If you have any?  Harold didn’t have any and he said it was bad for my teeth.  But I really like chocolate.  Do you like chocolate?  Your face looks like chocolate, kinda.  Nana Hardison was brown, too.  Do you know Nana Hardison?  I was there before went to Mr. C-Cowley.  Then I woke up, I think.  Then Miss Joan called Harold and he came and got me.”  John looked up at Joss expectantly, open-faced and smiling sleepily.

Setting the glass down, Joss opened her mouth to answer at least one of his many questions, when the doorbell rang.  “Hold that thought,” she said.

“’Kay,” John crossed his legs and turned his attention back to the milk and Daffy Duck, who was rabidly insisting it was rabbit season.  He giggled.  Lord, but that was strange.

The ringing was followed by knocking, and Joss crossed to the door.  “Hang on.”  She peered out the peephole and cursed softly, editing for young ears.  She opened the door and stepped out into the hall, closing it after herself.  “Why aren’t you with Finch?”

“Should I be?” Fusco said, and held out a loaf of bread, reeking of garlic.  “I come bearing gifts.  Mr. Wizard said you might need some help.  What’s going on?”

Her phone buzzed in her pocket before she could reach for it.  Two words, sender unknown.  _Plausible deniability._

The scenario spread out in Joss’s mind’s eye.  Harold was getting her and Fusco out of the way, while providing John backup, just in case whoever took him came looking again.  It made sense, in a Finchian sort of way, but Joss wanted to throw her phone at the wall.  Instead, she grabbed the bread from Fusco and said, “Don’t freak out.  Come in.”  There really was no way to prepare Fusco for John like this.  It had to be seen.  Fusco was a dad.  He’d see what Joss had, she felt sure.

From the couch, John perked up as the two came in, a milk mustache spreading across his upper lip.  “Hi!” he said brightly.  “I’m John.”

Fusco looked from John to Joss, then back again.  “For real?” He asked, at last.

“Yep.  Not sure what happened, but…”

“I got big,” John said shyly.  “I used to be little, and then I woke up.  I’m going to be six next week.  Who are you?”  He wiped his upper lip with his sleeve.  “Miss Joc’lyn made spaghetti.  Do you like spaghetti?”

For a long and silent moment, Fusco looked at John.  At length, he took off his jacket and sat down next to John.  “Yeah, kid.  I do.  I’m Lionel.  Nice to meetch’a.  You like Daffy Duck?”

A grin like the sun lit up John’s face.  “He’s silly!  I like Duck A-muck best.  ‘Stand fast, Musk’ters.  They sal sample…my…blade?”  John fell back, laughing and nearly spilling his milk.  Fusco caught it like he was waiting for it, and set it on the table, a slow smile turning up one side of his mouth, then reached for the remote control and found the cartoon in question.  John bounced a little and threw up his arms.  “You found it!  I couldn’t find it.  That’s a weird box with buttons and it’s all lit up.  Does that make the TV come on?  Just with buttons?  That’s neat!”  He reached eagerly for the remote, cartoon ignored for the moment.  “Can I see?”

Joss intercepted his reaching hands, remembering the havoc Taylor had made of her pre-sets.  “Nope.  That’s for grown ups only, John.” 

John’s hands flew back to his lap, and he clenched them together.  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said quietly.  “I’ll be good.  Thank you for the milk.”

That sudden acquiescence felt wrong to Joss.  “That’s ok, honey,” she said.  “Do you want to come help me set the table?”

The hands clenched tighter, and John shook his head just enough to make his salt and pepper hair twitch.  “I drop things, sometimes.  I’m clumsy.  Mrs. Cowley said if I broke another one of her dishes she’d send me back but…” and his nose wrinkled in confusion again.  “I don’t know if I’m supposed to go back.  Mr. and Mrs. Cowley don’t like big kids and I’m big now, and Harold has me now, right?”  He looked from Joss to Fusco for confirmation.

The timer went off.  “Supper’s ready,” Joss said.  The words caught a bit, and then she went on.  “ My boy, Taylor, will be home soon.  Fusco, come help me set the table.  John, how about you watch the cartoon and finish your milk, ok, honey?”

John’s deep “’Kay” was almost too soft to hear.

**

“God damn,” Fusco said quietly.  “He’s all out there, isn’t he.  Showing all his cards.”

The hope in John’s eyes, the confusion, the fear, the anxiety, all mixed up and plain to read.  “Yeah.  That’s what convinced me, too.  If I do find out he’s faking this, though, Ima kick his ass.”  She filled Fusco in on what little she knew while they set out dinner. 

The sun glinted through the window, tinting the air golden as the evening drew in.  “You sending Taylor to your mom’s tonight?”  Fusco tossed a salad together, lettuce and tomato and carrots in the same salad his mother had probably made when he was a kid.  “No telling what’s coming after him, and he can’t exactly protect himself like this.”

“Really?  You sure?”  Joss grimaced and set out the garlic bread.  “Yeah, I called a while ago.  I figured we’d keep watch tonight and see what happens in the morning.”

“C’n I help?” John’s deep, quiet voice came from the door.  Joss looked up to see him looking eagerly, if shyly into the room.  “I’ll be real careful.  Promise.” 

It was so odd to have that looming presence, shuffling bare feet and smiling a hopeful smile.  “Come on in, John,” Joss said.  “You can put out the napkins.  Soup’s on.”

“I thought we were having spaghetti,” John said sadly.  He looked at the pots on the table and then grinned.  “Wait a minute.  We ARE having spaghetti.  There’s noodles and everything.” He took the napkins from Joss and started around the table, carefully folding them and setting them beside each plate, his face a study in concentration.  “It’s so weird,” he said. “My hands are so big.  Like a monster or something.  Harold says I got big when I grew up, but I don’t remember that.”  A carefully folded triangle of linen was tucked under the forks.  “Do people usually grow up like this?  All at once?”  He looked from Joss to Fusco.  “Did you?”

Fusco sat down and started dishing up the spaghetti.  “No, kiddo.  It took a while.”  He passed John a plate of spaghetti and sauce, then handed one to Joss.


	3. Chapter Three “Can you tell a green field…”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you want? Who are you?” The fingers were steel bands, leaving just enough air for an answer. His other hand wrapped around her wrist, forcing her sidearm up and away. “Where am I?”
> 
> Joss forced herself to stillness. “I’m a friend,” she gasped. “You’re safe.”
> 
> Teeth flashed as a humorless grin stretched John’s mouth. His eyes stayed dead, mirthless. “There’s no such thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line about no such thing as safe I stole from my good friend Louann, who still isn't watching this show. I don't know why not

After spaghetti had been slurped, salad munched, and milk drank, John burped sleepily and asked where the bathroom was.  Joss sent him down the hall, and put out blankets for him on the couch.  Fusco took his watch in the alley, leaving Joss to keep watch in the apartment.  No messages from Finch, no hints on what to be on watch for.  She was cursing the little man’s name again, even as his friend giggled himself to sleep, watching the Coyote chasing the Road Runner all over a Picasso-esque landscape of sure failure and cactus. 

Joss settled into a chair, checking her sidearm and turning out the light.  A cup of coffee steamed at her elbow, fragrant with cardamom and sugar, double brewed to keep her awake.  “Whore coffee,” she’d called it on night-shift, long ago, dark as sin and guaranteed to keep anyone awake despite the hour.  She gentled it with a dollop of milk and sipped it with the respect it deserved.  The hours ticked past, trickling through like molasses, and still no word from the little man with the glasses.

A muffled sound came from the couch.  A groan, or a whimper, or something between the two.  John’s lanky form twitched in the deep night, kicking off the afghan and fending off the darkness with one waving hand.  No other sounds, no words of denial or rebellion.  An eerie quiet, lips pursed and eyes clenched, face blank, hands fisted and striving together, tied in his sleep as they might have been awake.  Joss set down her coffee and set her gun aside.  “John,” she said softly.  “John, honey, it’s a dream.”  His empty face turned towards her voice, and she crossed to crouch near his head.  “Easy, kiddo.”

His hand darted out, rattler quick, and seized her throat.  His eyes glinted in the night, open to slits and glaring death.  “What do you want?  Who are you?”  The fingers were steel bands, leaving just enough air for an answer.  His other hand wrapped around her wrist, forcing her sidearm up and away.  “Where am I?”

Joss forced herself to stillness.  “I’m a friend,” she gasped.  “You’re safe.”

Teeth flashed as a humorless grin stretched John’s mouth.  His eyes stayed dead, mirthless.  “There’s no such thing.”  He plucked Joss’ sidearm out of her hand and rolled to his feet, keeping her covered as he released her throat.  “Stay down.  Where am I?”  He went to the window and looked out cautiously.  “New York?”  The streetlights limned his face with silver, turned his eyes dark.  Joss stayed down, hands where they could be seen.  Even if she could get to her phone, she wouldn’t call anyone.  IF John didn’t recognize her, neither Harold nor Fusco were safe.  John the child had grown up, into John the killer.  “I need to get to New Rochelle.  You’re going to take me.”

Joss sank onto the couch.  “You’re going after Jessica Arnt, right?”  Her heart felt heavy and her mouth dry.  This news would not be taken well.  Damn Harold, anyway, for leaving this man in her care.  “She’s dead, John.  I’m sorry.”

The shadowed form went still.  A shade of a shadow in the dim room, even breath stopped.  Breath, life, hope.  “No.”  It was a global negation.  “No…I….”  Abruptly, his knees went out from under him, and he landed in a nerveless sprawl, gun clattering away under the end table.  He looked over at Joss, blinked, and slivered tears tracked down his stubbled face.  “Miss Joss?”  The voice was small again, confused, and anger and pain and fear leached out like a poison.  “I’m sorry, Miss Jos’lyn.  I had a nightmare.”

Slowly, Joss rose.  Slowly, she retrieved her sidearm and put it in the kitchen.  Slowly, she crouched next to John and stroked the tears from his cheeks.  “That’s ok, honey.  Want some milk?  I think I got some chocolate.”

Morning came at last, gilding the air.  John had fallen asleep again, curled up with his head in Joss’ lap and more Looney Tunes playing softly in the background.  Lionel came up, handing out coffee and setting a box of donuts on the table.  “Why didn’t you call me in?  You get any sleep at all?”

“A little.  He had bad dreams.”  Joss eased out from beneath John’s tousled head and wrapped her hand around the coffee cup gratefully. 

Fusco stopped her hand before the cup reached her lip.  Dark bruising marred her wrist, and she was impressed Fusco had noticed it.  Most couldn’t tell the difference on dark skin.  “How bad?” he asked, releasing her hand.  He looked at her neck, and his eyes narrowed.  Joss rubbed at the lingering soreness and took a long pull at the not nearly hot enough coffee.

“Pretty bad,” she admitted.  “Have you heard from Harold this morning?”

Her phone buzzed and she wondered if Finch was a devil, to appear so when spoken of.  “Good morning, Detective.  How’s our mutual friend?”  The man sounded tired, strained, but not anxious.

“Fine, Finch.  How are your investigations going?”  On the couch, John stirred, frowning in his sleep.  He burrowed into the pillows and pulled the afghan over his head.  Fusco smiled and shook his head. 

“Reminds me of my kid.  He hates mornings.” 

“Proceeding apace, Detective.  I should be able to retrieve our friend by this afternoon.  I hope he’s not being too much trouble.  Is he still….”

“Daffy Duck is his favorite. And he likes chocolate milk.  I think we might go to the zoo, later.”  From beneath the blanket, a muffled sneeze was followed by a sleepy, “’scuze me.”  “Should be safe to stick to public places, right?”

There was a long silence, with only the noise of distantly tapping keyboard in the background.  “Yes.  I should think so.  I’ll meet you by the big cats at 3pm.  Call me immediately if there’s a change in Mr. Reese’s condition.”

Joss swallowed around a bruise and agreed she would, then rang off.

“I never went to the zoo before,” John said, eyes bright, sitting up and wrapping the afghan around his shoulders.  “Can I give peanuts to the elephants?  They do that on TV.”


	4. “….from a cold, steel rail.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it turned out, you could not give peanuts to the elephants.

As it turned out, you could not give peanuts to the elephants.  There was, however, a platform overlooking a small herd of giraffes where you could feed them lettuce, for a small fee.  John watched with wide eyes, a scattering of school children on a field trip milling around his feet, as the graceful animals stepped up to the waiting humans, brown eyes huge, and black tongues licking out for the green morsels offered by a dozen waving fists.  John held his lettuce leaf out tentatively, breathlessly, and was rewarded by the attention of the tallest of the curious beasts.

Lionel leaned against the back wall of the open deck, a couple more leaves of Romaine in his hand just in case.  Kevin always spent at least a half hour here, back when going to the zoo was a thing.  Joss was off getting pop, leaving him on babysitting duty, when this herd of first graders trooped noisily up, their beleaguered minders rounding up a last few into the roofed shelter before collapsing onto benches for a moment’s breath.

John stood out head and shoulders, and chest, and a yard or so of leg, above the chattering crowd.  He didn’t seem to notice them, though.  His eyes were locked on the giraffes, and he reached out toward the one eating from his hand, a gentle pat on its nose.  Grinning hugely, he looked back toward Lionel, and the look on his face was just like Kevin’s, all wonder and awe and delight.  It was going to hurt like hell, Lionel realized, when John grew up again.  He wondered when giraffes had stopped being cool, for John.  Lionel didn’t even remember, for himself.

“He your brother?”  One of the teachers was sitting hear him, fanning herself with a zoo map.  She was a middle aged woman, frumpy in a sweet kind of way, with graying red hair and bifocals.  “He’s special, isn’t he?”

John was sharing his lettuce with a tiny black girl, hair in neat cornrows and ragged sneakers on her feet.  She was one of the ones who hadn’t brought money, evidently, for the fee.  He handed her the remains of a leaf and lifted her gently up so she could get a good look at the giraffes.  Their heads were together, but Lionel couldn’t hear what they were saying.  The girl offered out the lettuce and giggled as the long neck craned toward them, then hid her face in John’s neck.

“Something like that,” Lionel said.  He looked back to the woman and gave her a little smile.  “He won’t hurt her or nothin’.  He’s good with kids.”

The woman nodded.  “I can tell.  He’s very careful.  Has he always been simple?”

Lionel laughed.  “Nah.  Simple ain’t what I’d call him.”  The girl was on the ground again, and John turned reluctantly away, wading through the gaggle back to Lionel.  “Hey, kiddo.  You ‘bout done?”

“Yeah.  Can I give Shayna the rest of my lettuce?”  He looked hopefully at the two ragged and limp leaves in Lionel’s hand.  “She really likes giraffes, and I wanna go see the birds.  Can we go see the birds next, please?” 

“Sure thing.”  The exchange was made, John down on one knee and the girl gave him a neck hug in return. 

“Treasure him,” the teacher said.  “He’s one of God’s Fools.  He’ll show you the world with new eyes.”

John loped back as Joss walked up with three sodas.  “I feeded a giraffe, Miss Joc’lyn,” John said brightly.  “Lionel says we can go see the birds next.  Can we, please?”

Something was fuzzing Lionel’s eyes, and he had to clear his throat with a swallow of pop. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but Lionel wanted to get in his two cents worth. More coming up.


	5. “A smile, from a veil.  Do you think you can tell?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Aryans truly were fools, but that went without saying, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for a bit of off screen torture.

There was something very satisfying about protecting one’s own.  The organization responsible for John’s present state would be licking its wounds for some time, as they tried and failed to recover from the financial and legal fallout Harold had brought upon them over the last twenty-seven hours.  The Aryans truly were fools, but that went without saying, really.  Harold wasn’t sure that his retribution truly made up for the seven days John had been their guest, but at least they would not be in a position to make another attack.

Seven days.  Harold felt his gorge rise once again.  He’d recovered tapes, had watched enough to know why John was still hiding within himself.  Beatings, yes, and prolonged stress positioning, as the men demanded to know the whereabouts of their damned money.  Sustenance withheld, sleep withheld, light and warmth withheld.  Air withheld to the point of hypoxia.  Drugs. 

The drugs, Harold suspected, were the problem.  John had seemed to retreat within himself, on the tapes, in the cellar which had been his prison.  He’d been kept chained, like an animal, like the predator he was, as his captors had abused him, both verbally and physically.  He’d been silent, when allowed, presenting a stoic face to his captors, which had mostly served to make them more vicious.  With the drugs still in his system, still clouding his mind, John might not realize yet that he was safe.

Harold hadn’t been able to watch much.  He’d watched the timestamp climb, had turned the sound down after the first five minutes, and had taken Bear for multiple calming walks as he plotted the downfall of the Aryan Nation.

He hoped John wouldn’t remember, when he came back to himself.  He feared, though, that neither of them was blessed by Fortuna.  Or Lethe, for that matter.

The ice cream cone was dripping slightly, and Harold caught the vanilla cream as it touched his hand.  A panther watched him calmly, unconcerned, from her rocky perch.  A trio of cubs lolled in the late afternoon sun, sleepily batting at each others tails and tumbling in the grass.  Distantly, a coughing roar announced feeding time in the lion enclosure, and the gaggle of first-graders hogging viewing room all along the great cat’s exhibit made appreciative noises.

From the corner of his eye, Harold noted the slow approach of John and the detectives.  John had his hoodie back on, and he was pulling at Detective Carter’s hand eagerly.  “Harold!” he called, and dropped his grip to lope over.  “Harold!  I feeded a giraffe!  It has a black tongue.  Do all giraffe’s have a black tongue?  Did you know that elephants don’t really drink through their noses?  And we saw the meercats!  And….”

For a distraction, Harold handed John the ice cream cone.  “Sounds like you had a wonderful time.  Ready to go home?”

Detective Carter lingered, saying something to Fusco, who was gesturing to her neck.  She shook her head and shooed him away.  Interesting. 

“See you later, John,” Fusco said, coming up and ruffling the taller man’s grizzled hair.  “I gotta go pick up my kid for hockey practice.  Maybe, if you’re still…around…we’ll go to a game this weekend.”

John nodded.  “I like hockey.  Thanks, Mr. Lionel.  I had fun today.” 

“Me, too, kiddo.”  One final glare to Detective Carter, and Fusco ambled away into the crowds.

The lion roared again, and John jumped, dropping his cone.  His face fell, and he looked mournfully down at the melting treat.  “Man,” he said soflty.  “I’m sorry, Harold.  I’ll clean it up.”  He crouched down and picked up the cone and as much of the ice cream as he could gather up, before walking it over to the trashcan and depositing it there.  He wiped his hands on his jeans, and then looked guiltily over at Harold again.

Harold pretended not to notice the slight indiscretion.  “If I ever chance to meet Mr. or Mrs. Cowley,” he commented softly to Jocelyn, “I’m not sure I will be able to control my actions.”

“I’m with you, there. I’m guessing he was a foster kid?”  John wandered over to stare at the panther cubs, hiding a yawn behind his hands.  Harold looked around and located another vendor of frozen treats and acquired three cones.  He handed one to the detective, without answering her question, and carried the other over to John.

“The lion scared me, too, the first time it roared,” he said, handing the pristine cone over, along with a handful of napkins.  He brushed the fringe of hair away from John’s eyes, and looked back at Carter.  After a long moment, she toasted him with the cone and followed after Lionel.

“Wasn’t scared.  I’m too big to get scared,” John insisted.  “Can we go home now?  Back to the book place?”  He folded his warm, sticky hand into Harold’s, and carefully started licking up the melting drips of chocolate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up on the home stretch.


	6. Just two lost souls…wish you were here….

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it got dark, Harold didn’t even ask, just brought out a light and put it near the blow up mattress John was going to sleep on. It had pillows and three fluffy blankets, a Spiderman, a Captain America, and a Wolverine, which was so totally cool.

The book place, the ‘library,’ Harold called it, was cool and dim and smelled like Nana Hardison’s Bible, the big one with all her kid’s names in it.  John had been so proud when she’d written in his name, even if he couldn’t read it yet, and he’d helped her bake peanut butter cookies after.  Bear was at the library, and Harold stopped and picked up some kind of spicy smelling food that came all in little white boxes, lots and lots of them.  John folded himself down onto the floor, wincing a little as his tummy twinged again, and let Bear clean up his face.

“That won’t do, you know, John.  Time to wash up for dinner.”  Harold was always so nice, so gentle sounding.  It made John really want to do what he told him to do, so he wouldn’t call his case worker and come take him back to the group home.  The kids there were mean, sometimes.  Although now, John supposed, he was bigger than most of them.  He scrambled up, shying away from that thought once again, like trying to not poke a bruise so it didn’t hurt worse.  Harold didn’t seem to mind that he was big, and had to shave, and had this weird, deep voice.  John liked Harold.

Washed and tidied, John went back to find all the little boxes opened up and steaming.  “Wow.  That smells good!”  Harold was picking noodles out of one box with sticks, and he showed John how to do that, too, and John was really good at it, and Bear picked up anything that slipped out, so that was ok.  Harold didn’t mind when he dropped food, or spilled a little, or asked questions.  When it got dark, Harold didn’t even ask, just brought out a light and put it near the blow up mattress John was going to sleep on.  It had pillows and three fluffy blankets, a Spiderman, a Captain America, and a Wolverine, which was so totally cool.  And he didn’t have to share, and Harold even got him warm pj’s with Snoopy and Woodstock on.

The library was quiet, and Bear was curled up at John’s feet.  Harold read from Winnie the Pooh, the one where Pooh gets stuck in Rabbit’s door, until John felt his eyes going heavy.  The voice got further and further away, doing all the voices, even Christopher Robin, until Pooh was extracted and Harold shut the book with a soft sound.  “Sleep well, John,” he said, and John said, “Night night Harold.  Love you.”  And Harold might have said love you back, but then John was asleep.

 

\--

The early morning sun touched John’s nose, and he sneezed.  He was warm, and comfortable.  Soft covers surrounded him, and he was buoyed up by an air mattress or something.  The solid lump at his side proved to be Bear, and he could smell bacon and eggs, and toast, and coffee.  And books.  There was a clatter of keystrokes, and the faint smell of green tea and Harold’s aftershave.  Every sense informed John he was safe and home.  He sighed into the soft cocoon of fleece and fur and closed his eyes again, sinking into sleep.

The next time he drifted awake, he stretched languorously and rolled out of the bed’s embrace, throwing Wolverine around him like a shawl.  Bear hopped up, padding alongside, as he went looking for coffee.  Harold, pale and immaculate, sat before his multi-screened oracle, pursuing several lines of fast moving code at once, monitoring at least three video feeds, and sipping tea absently between keystrokes.

“Morning, Harold,” John said.  “Is the coffee still hot?”

Doing that body twist, chin raise that served for looking over his shoulder, Harold turned and nearly knocked over his tea.  John stood and let himself be perused, deduced, accepted.  He had vague memories, uncomfortable and comforting, of long hours of hell followed by being cared for by more friends than he had thought he possessed.  He didn’t want to take them out, yet, but he understood why he was wearing Snoopy pajamas and why his ribs and wrists were so damn sore.

After a long moment, Harold smiled his quirked smile and gestured toward the coffee pot.  “I’m glad you’re back, Mr. Reese.  You were much missed.  How much do you remember of the last few days?”

John poured a cup.  “Enough to know I owe Detective Carter an apology.  And something about a giraffe.”  He stroked down Bear’s soft back, scratched gently behind his ears.  “Before that, its kind of a blur.  What day is it?”

Harold paused before speaking, a bad sign.  “You left the library approximately two weeks ago.  You were returned to us four days ago, much the worse for wear.” He seemed about to say something else, but stopped.  “Your friend, Joan, called and told me she found you under a bridge and would I please come pick you up.  I have no idea how she obtained my number, but nevertheless, there you were, looking much as you did when we first met.”

John could picture it.  Bearded, wild eyed, stinking, and sore.  And Harold had picked him up again, and cleaned him up, and kept him safe.  There was knowledge behind Harold’s eyes, and a new depth of pain.  “They filmed it, didn’t they.  Or parts of it.”  He still wasn’t too clear on who “they” were, but he had suspicions.  People shouting, asking where Leon was, where the money was, who John was.  Always, always, who are you?  Who are you?

“Parts,” Harold agreed, and he grimaced in distaste.  “I’ve taken care of it.  We won’t be troubled by them again, and the NAACP has received a very large monetary donation, as has Planned Parenthood and the Holocaust Museum in Dallas, Texas.  Those animals won’t be able to buy bread.”  There was a vicious satisfaction to Harold’s voice, now, and John approved.  It wasn’t quite as satisfying as hunting down each and every racist dickhead who had chained him, and kicked him, and mocked him, and beaten him again and again and….

The coffee helped.  The softness of the fleece, with Wolverine growling so ferociously out at the world, helped, too.  And Bear’s solid warmth, all served to keep him here and now.  It was too soon.  But it was always too soon.  It was safe here.  Safe and silent and god, was that bacon he smelled?

“Did you get a hot plate?” John padded into the small workroom they had converted into a kitchen last fall.  Finch had declared at the time that the fire hazard was too great, insisting on microwave cooking only. 

“Electric skillet.  I know how you hate the way bacon comes out in the microwave,” Harold said.  “There’s more in the refrigerator, if you’d care to fry some up.  The batch I made earlier got cold, so I fed it to Bear.”

John looked down at the unrepentant dog, who grinned up at him.  “Well, once in a while won’t hurt.”  He folded the blanket over the back of a chair and started up the skillet, taking out bacon, eggs, an onion, butter, and rummaging around for salt and pepper.  He didn’t look at his wrists.  His body was a tool, the damage was superficial, the hunger phantom and false.  No one was going to deny him this breakfast.  The act of cooking soothed him further, and made him think of spaghetti, and sitting at a table with family.

Bear didn’t get any of this batch, but he was allowed to lick the plate clean of yolk and grease.

 

Joss got her apology. Lionel was reimbursed for the lettuce.  Harold stocked the library refrigerator with chocolate syrup.  The good kind.

 

 

 

 

Epilogue One: Lionel

Lionel refused the reimbursement.  It went down like this:  The day after John woke up again, he tracked Lionel down his son’s practice field.  “Hello, Lionel,” John said, standing behind the stocky detective, drawling his voice as he usually did when addressing the other man. 

Fusco whirled, then looked John up and down.  Back in the suit, his hair combed, hands sunk in his pockets, and no sneakers in sight.  “You’re back.  Glad to see you, ki…Reese.”

The eyes were back to normal; normal for Reese anyway.  He was still, centered, and silent as his other self had never been.  “You, too, Lionel.”  Reese looked over the kids playing, then his eyes tracked the park, the street, the buildings in that hyper observant way of his.  “I owe you.  Fifteen bucks for lettuce, wasn’t it?”  A slow pull from his pocket, and Lionel was looking at a couple of Benjamin’s, held between a couple of gloved fingers.  Laconic, off hand.  Insulting.

“Screw you, buddy,” Lionel said.  He turned and sat down on the bench again, watching his kid, his boy, chasing the puck over the concrete.  “You were a good kid.  I got no idea when you turned into such an asshole.”

There was a long, empty silence.  Then that deep voice, gravel and whisper, but no menace for once.  “I’m not good at this.  I’m sorry.  Thank you, Mr. Lionel.  If you still want to go to that hockey game, I’d like to go.”

Lionel huffed a breath through his hose, rubbed his eyes, sighed.  “I’ll call you.  Now get out of here before my kid sees you and starts asking questions.”

“’Kay.  Bye.”

He knew there wouldn’t be anyone there when he looked back around.  The guy in the suit loved pulling that Batman disappearing shit.  He looked anyway, and saw Reese slowly walking away, glancing back over his shoulder and waving once, a shy smile on his face.

 

 

 

Epilogue Two: Joss

That year, Joss got three Mother’s Day cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. Hope you liked it.


End file.
